


cowboy like me

by PrincessJaqulineChess1031



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Archery, Axs, Hunger Games, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Murder, Starvation, Swearing, Swordfighting, Swords
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:33:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28330200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessJaqulineChess1031/pseuds/PrincessJaqulineChess1031
Summary: Johanna Mason knew what it was like to be hungry. She knew what it was like to have her spirit broken. She also did not know many things. Things like politics and war and horrors so terrible it stuns you to silence. When her name is pulled out of the Reaping bowl and she is thrown into the Seventy-First Hunger Games, she gets a crash course in all of it.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

er 1

_“Johnathon Edward Mason, get back here!”_

My brother laughs that annoying laugh of his and flings himself to the other side of our small kitchen, nearly spilling strawberry jelly on his Reaping pants. I growl and reach to pull him back by his collar and fling him into a chair at the kitchen table. My grandfather sits on the other side of the table, eyes raised but not saying anything.

“Do you have any idea what it took for me to this medicine?” I asked. I shove two pink pills into his palm, and he frowns at them. “And now you’re not going to take them? Not on my watch.”

My brother hesitates a moment more and then he sends me a glower and swallows them dry. I take an inward sigh of relief. It had taken me six months of doing our whole block’s laundry to afford a single month’s worth of pills. My brother always told me not to worry about it, that he did not need it, but I knew better. I could see the pain on his face when migraines when descend on him for weeks at a time. The sweat that would line his brow, the way his spine curved, unable to completely stand because of the pain. If this medicine could prevent them, so be it. I would pay whatever it took.

I put the bottle on the top shelf of the cabinet, hidden behind a small jar of flour.

Jonathon swiped at the brunet bangs that were in his face. I would have to cut it soon. I sneak a glance at the sun in the sky and wonder if there is enough time to cut it before the Reaping. I decide against it. The bus to take us would be here any minute, and they were not inclined to wait.

Most of the other districts did not have buses to take them to their Reaping, but with how large District Seven was they really had no choice. I think they might do it in District 11 too. There Reaping crowd was almost as large as ours; I see it every year on the recap the Capitol makes us watch. Never as large as ours though. Many forgot that we were technically the largest district.

I grimace. Not that it makes us any richer. We are above District 12 and District 11, but we are not far beyond.

“The bus will be here soon Johanna,”” Jonathon says. He plays with the collar of his shirt and does not quite look at me. “We better shake a leg.” Paw Paw says something, too quiet for either us to hear, but seems to agree. He stands, rising shakily with the help of his cane.

I shift uncomfortably in my green dress. Reaping Day was the only day I wore one and I could not wait to be out of it. I could not wait for this whole thing to be over. I would much rather that this was a normal day, where me and Jonathon would wake early to help with loading lumber and then go to school.

But it was Reaping Day, and that meant it was no normal day. Officially it was some kind of sick holiday. Two kids from each of the twelve districts were chosen to fight to the death, and the winner would return a champion and a reminder of their “mercy”. This was called The Hunger Games and it happened every summer. I did not understand why they did not just round some of us and shoot us. It would be kinder than this. It was punishment for the Dark Days, the war nearly seventy-five years ago that resulted in the Districts firm defeat and the Captiol’s reign.

Jonathon held open the door for me and Paw Paw, and we slowly walked down the dirt path to the bus stop at the edge of the road. A few neighbors are walking too, but no one dares speak. What is there to say, really? I see little Minnie Edwards, just past twelve and on her way to her first Reaping. I hope she does not get picked. She would never survive.

My brother walks in step with me, our grandfather ahead of us. He turns his head to look at me and takes my hand. I give it a squeeze, and it is all the comfort either of us need. My parents used to say when me and my brother were born, we would stare at each other for hours, apparently able to talk with twin telepathy. I called that hogwash, but there was something to it. He was the closest to me, and I could tell everything he knew or felt with just a twinge of his eyebrow or a squeeze of his hand.

We arrive at the stop just as the smelly, dank bus rears to a stop. It is already teeming with people. I hear a few babies cry and mothers and fathers assuring children they will not be picked. I try not to roll my eyes. The only way to truly be free of that terror is to turn nineteen and get your name taken out of consideration completely

My family boards, and my grandfathers sits down in the nearest seat he can find. Sweat is pouring off him in buckets and he is breathing very heavy. The only day Paw Paw left the house was Reaping Day. He was far too old and sick to go any other day. But he always trudged himself out, just in case he had to say goodbye to me and Jonathon.

Me and Jonathon slip into the leather bench behind him. I claim the window seat and lean my shoulder against the side of the bus. I loved the way the bus rattled and rumbled. It felt like a beast that was pulled back just enough that it was not quite dangerous.

The bus gears up again as everyone boards. Behind us sits Minnie and her mother. Minnie’s head pops up over the back of the bench despite the no standing sign. The Peacekeeper driving does not say anything.

“Is it scary?” Minnie asks. Neither me nor Jonathon need to ask what ‘it’ is.

“Yes,” I say. Jonathon looks at me strangely and I realize I probably should have lied. “Well, I mean, it’s not nearly as scary as you think it is.” Jonathon nods beside me.

“It’s over before you know it,” Jonathon says, snapping his fingers for effect. “It’s like roll call at school. Boring and over before you know it.”

Minnie does not look sure, and she bites her lip. Her mother looks down at her feet and I recognize the guilt in her eyes. Legally, your name is entered once when you turn twelve and then you get one more every year your eligible. But they also give you a deal, more entries for a years’ worth of grain and oil. For the starving – which is most of us – it is a Godsend. But they also add on as well, so the starving outweighs the non by such a wide margin the merchants and political leader’s kids almost never get picked.

Minnie’s mother made her take out terrasse. I do not begrudge her for it. There was no other way. Jonathon smiles reassuringly and takes Minnie’s small hand in his larger, calloused one.

“It’ll be fine, Minnie,” he says. “A cute little girl like you? They’ll change the rules if you get picked, declare you're just too adorable to be entered.” Minnie manages a small laugh.

Jonathon is a much more personable person. He can talk to people and never be too blunt or loud or scary, or any of the other words they use to describe me. Regardless, I still give Minnie as small smile.

The rest of the ride passes in relative silence. The bus is overcrowded and we don’t stop to pick up anyone else on our way to the town square; we must have been the last stop. A few kids are whispering, but I do not really care enough to listen, just looking out the window and thinking about what I am going to do after the Reaping. I think I might be able to pick up a shift at the lumber mill if I race there. I do not consider if I get Reaped. It is too scary to really consider, so I do not let myself go there.

We pull in behind a procession of other buses, some shiner and others more dented. The Peacekeeper at the front stands after he turns off the bus. I do not know his name, but it is apparent he is from the Capitol. He does not have the tan skin and brunet hair that marks the children on District Seven; this man is pale and blond, a hard look in his eye that falls just short of scary and just above intimidating.

“Will all eligible Reaping children please exit the bus,” he says, but it is not a question. Me and Jonathon stand, as do about half of the bus’s occupants. I think in other Districts they all arrive together, but here they shuffle all of us into the square by age before letting the parents and others fill out the square. They say it is for crowd control, but we all know it is because about five years ago a mom tried to run off with her kid after the Reaping started, and now they want to make sure we are as separated as possible.

The kid in question was reaped the next year. He died within a minute of the gong sounding.

Paw Paw shoots a severe look, that despite being harsh communicated pride and hope and love. I gave one back and Paw Paw nodded. We were a quiet family. Words were not necessary.

Me and Jonathon followed the others to the square, Minnie glued to our side. She looked around fearfully, eyes wide and seemingly overwhelmed by all the people. I put a hand on her shoulder to guide her. It is the best comfort I can offer now that we are here.

After we sign-in, Minnie finally must separate from us, and I try to ignore the shaking in her legs as she takes her place amongst the other twelve-year-old girls. Me and Jonathon share a long look before we separate into the sections for seventeen-year-old boys and girls.

It feels like a lifetime before everyone is filed in, made only worse by the heat. It is just past ten in the morning, but the heat baring down no matter what time of day is no friend of mine. I wipe the sweat off my neck as the stage at the front fills with the mayor and other Capitol officials.

“District Seven,” the mayor begins at the podium, “thank you for taking time out of your day to be here.” Like we had a choice.

The mayor dives into a boring speech on how the Districts should be grateful for the Hunger Games, and how it is a blessing we were not destroyed like District Thirteen and other stuff that all of us already know by heart.

Finally, the mayor steps back and introduces the Capitol escort, Flynnigan. Flynnigan has been our escort for nearly forty years, and has only brought back three Victors, but never seems to be bothered by it, arriving back every year with a smile and ridiculous outfit.

This year, he is wearing a magenta suit and a hat with a shameful number of feathers that threaten to spill over into his face. The Victors sit behind Flynnigan, all three of them staring at him with varying looks of confusion to admonishment. Blight – the most recent and winning ten years ago – just shakes his head with a laugh. Dorian and Fern look less pleased, frowning thin lined smiles.

“Hello,” Flynnigan says in that ridiculous Capitol accent of his, “I’m so honored to be back to District Seven, for the Seventy-First Annual Hunger Games!” At this he expects a thunderous ovation, but the best we give him is a slow clap. He seems to take this in stride. “There’s that District Seven hospitality I’m so accustomed to!”

I cannot tell if he is being sincere. The high-pitched tone of his voice makes it hard to tell.

“Now, as always, let’s start with our wonderful ladies,” Flynnigan says, smiling a pearly smile over our side of the crowd. Flynnigan glides over to the clear bowl right in front of the girls, filled to the brim with slips of our children’s names. On twenty-four of them is my name.

Flynnigan grabs one, his hand in and out much quicker than it should for such a life-changing decision. He returns to the podium and I hold my breath. He opens the folded slip. He smiles.

“Johanna Mason!”

My stomach drops and I scream.

I feel a warm pounding in my head, and I fear I might throw up. Around me the other girls are whispering, staring, and seemingly relieved it’s not them. They start to part for me and somehow my legs carry me to the stage.

I know this is being broadcast to the entire nation, that people are watching and seeing how I react. Seeing if I have the courage of potential victor. Despite all of that, I just remain in my state of shock, my face red and the pinpricks of tears starting in my eyes.

As I take my place, I make eye contact with Blight. He tilts his head curiously and whispers something to Dorian. I don’t really have the time to process that before I’m turned around to face a sea of people. All of them stare at me, and I search for two faces.

I eventually find one of them and he’s just as I thought he would be. Jonathon is flushed red as well, eyes wide. A boy beside him seems to be holding his left arm. He must have tried to start towards the stage himself.

“Let’s give it up for our lovely female tribute,” Flynnigan says. “Johanna Mason!”

District Seven gives a cold, slow clap. I do not blame them. Do you clap for the girl being dragged to her death?

Because make no mistake. I know I am to die.

Flynnigan seems satisfied with this and he grins, straightening his suit coat.

“Now, for the courageous young boys,” Flynnigan says. He reaches into the bowl for the boys, and all I can do is hope that it is not Jonathon’s name that is not pulled. I can see the fear in his eyes. I do not turn away even as Flynnigan returns to the podium.

“Trapper Counselman!”

Relief floods my system. If there is any solace, it is that Jonathon will not go with me.

From the throngs of fourteen-year-old boys comes a skinny boy with limbs seemingly too big for his body, with tan skin and brown hair pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck. He, like me, seems completely terrified.

Trapper soon finds his place next to me. We do not look at each other.

“Now!” Flynnigan says. “Have we any brave volunteers for this magnificent pageant?”

It’s a rhetorical question. No one outside of District 1,2, or 4 volunteers, unless they have a death wish. That happened once before. I remember a young girl from 5 who basically said everything except that she wanted to die, and just stood at her pedestal and let a tribute snap her neck. I sometimes wonder what was so bad she wanted to go to the Hunger Games. Surely there were other ways to die.

Jonathon makes a movement and I shake my head.

_Don’t._

I am unsure I could survive if I went into the arena with Jonathon. Luckily, he stays silent and then the moment for volunteers passes.

Me and Trapper shake hands and then are ushered inside the Justice Building. I have never been inside the building before; it seems cold and harsh, walls painted a stark white and slick floors that click when you walk on it.

We are separated and put in two separate rooms, and I am ceremonially pushed into what appears to be a conference room by two masked Peacekeepers. There is a long wooden table with chairs all around, shelves lined with books along two of the walls. A small window sits on the opposite wall.

By law, I am allowed one hour to make my goodbyes. I doubt I will need a whole hour.

Jonathon bursts through the doors like a wild deer and grips me in a tight embrace. I return it, digging my face into his neck. I can hear the sound of Paw Paw’s cane, and I know he is here too. Me and Jonathon remain for a long moment, and I don’t want it to end. I want to be here, with my brother, where nothing can hurt me.

Eventually, we have to let go. I give Paw Paw a similar hug, but this one is much shorter. Paw Paw takes a seat and I do not say anything. He can not stand for very long.

“Johanna, you can win,” Jonathon says. I do not contain my laugh.

“In what universe?” I ask. I wipe at a lone tear that escaped. “There are Districts that- that train for this kind of thing. And I-I’m just cannon fodder.”

Jonathon shakes his head. “You can do this. You’re strong, and I’ve seen you hunt before.”

I do not hunt often. But we live in forest terrain, we are the lumber district after all, and they sometimes let us loose to hunt when there are too many animals.

“You just need an ax,” Jonathon says. “You have an ax, and you can do it.”

Their being an ax is unlikely. They hardly ever include have them at the Cornucopia where all the tributes start. Mostly maces and swords and bows. I suppose a mace or a sword would do the same, but I am not trained for them.

I shake my head.

“Listen to me,” I say. “To keep your medicine, you’re going to need to keep doing the laundry. I’m sure under the circumstances, they’ll be a little more lenient at first, but that won’t last long.”

“My medicine?” Jonathon asks. “Johanna, is now really –”

“Yes,” I say. “Promise me you won’t stop taking it because I’m gone. You’ll have one less mouth to feed, so it should be easier on the household.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “You and Paw Paw are my whole world. After I’m gone, don’t stop because of me.”

Jonathon finally cries, pulling me into another hug.

“I love Johanna,” he whispers. I hug him back, a shudder escaping me.

“I love you too,” I say. I let go of him and turn to my grandfather. I sink to my knees in front of him.

“Thank you,” I say. “For taking care of us all these years.” Paw Paw had been our only parent for ten years. He could have just as easily let us go to the Community Home, but he didn’t.

Paw Paw shifts in the seat, smiling.

“You’re a good girl, Johanna,” he says softly. “Fight. Win.” He caresses my face softly. “I’m so proud of you.”

The doors thrust open again, and a Peacekeeper takes one step in.

“Time’s up,” he says. Jonathon looks like he wants to fight, but he just nods and help my grandfather to his feet. And then, just like that, they’re gone.

I do not expect anyone else to visit me, so I ready myself to wait the remainder of the time. To my surprise, however, the door bursts open and then there is Minnie running towards me.

She hugs me around my torso and buries her face in the skirt of my dress. Tears are in her eyes once she finally pulls away.

“Maybe they’ll change the rules,” she says, “because you’re so pretty and they don’t want you to die.” I laugh softly and pull her back into a hug.

“Maybe,” I say, “maybe.” She sniffles and lets go.

“I’ll make sure Jonathon is okay,” she says. Minnie sounds older than twelve very suddenly. “I know he gets sick sometimes.”

“Thank you, Minnie,” I say. I had never been particularly close to Minnie. It was always Jonathon who talked to our young next-door neighbor. I cannot deny, however, my affection for the girl. And now, my gratitude.

I place a kiss to her head, and then the Peacekeeper is back and taking away Minnie.

And just like that, I am alone. I hug myself, feeling very small in this large, lifeless building.


	2. Chapter 2

The train rides very smoothly, much more smoothly than the bus or lumber truck. I can walk freely amongst the train cars, and there is no bumping like there was this morning on the bus. I sit rigidly in the plush chair and try not to look too amazed at the caravan leading me to my death.

There is food everywhere – pastries line the wall and sit delicately on the table, placed on plates that look like they cost more than a dozen eggs. A table with an array of alcohol sits against the far wall, in colors ranging from wine-red to neon green. Everything is so soft; chairs and walls are lined with velvet and the carpet is squishy beneath my shoe.

Trapper sits beside me, seemingly also in awe. Flynnigan disappeared soon after boarding, saying something about steam pressing and a horrid smell. I am sure that Blight, District 5’s newest Victor and our mentor, is somewhere around here, but just hasn’t made our acquaintance yet.

I and Trapper sit in silence for a long time, just staring at everything and taking in our own morality. I wonder if it’ll hurt.

“Do you believe in God?” Trapper asks suddenly. I blink and turn to him.

“What?” I say. Trapper looks down at his shoes, embarrassed and flushed red.

“Well, what with our doom upon us,” Trapper says, “I’m just thinking about what comes next. If there’s a life after this one.” I’m struck speechless for a moment. I hadn’t expected Trapper to be so caviler about our deaths. I have no fantasy I would win, but I sure was not going down without a fight.

Before I can answer, the door opens with a swish. Blight stands in the doorway, wearing khaki pants and a white shirt only half tucked in. His dark eyes scan over us, and he says nothing as he comes closer to us. I notice a bit of gray at his temple. I am surprised by it, Blight is not even thirty yet. He takes a seat across from his, and I notice he is not wearing shoes, only bright blue socks with holes.

“I am not going to coddle you,” Blight said. “You most likely are going to die.” I give an offended look.

“Thanks for the confidence boost,” I say. I was not sure I wanted the person responsible for keeping me alive to be so blasé about my survival probability. Never mind the fact I was already resigned to it myself

Blight raised a single eyebrow.

“What I am going to do is be honest with you,” he says. “As long as you are honest with me. Does that sound fair?”

I suppose. Me and Trapper both nod unsurely.

“Do you want to be mentored together or separately?” Blight asks. Some of the more victorious Districts have two mentors, allowing each tribute to have one to themselves. We were not so lucky. Fern was senile more than he was not, and Dorian was unofficially banned from the Capitol for some incident involving President Snow’s wife, a chicken, chocolate, and a blanket. I heard if you get him drunk enough, he will tell you the whole story, but I’ve also heard it’s never the same story twice.

“Separately,” Trapper says quickly. I shoot Trapper a critical glance.

“Fair enough,” Blight says. I feel a stab of betrayal, even though I know it’s warranted. I and Trapper are competitors, the other must die if we want to come home, but apart of me had hoped me and Trapper would be on the same side. At least at first.

I uncross my legs and stand up. I glare at Trapper.

“I’ll let you discuss _alone_ then,” I say snappier than I should. Blight seems amused, a ghost of a smile tearing at his face. Trapper has the decency to look a little ashamed. I ignore them both and turn on my heel, stomping out of the train car.

Flynnigan has shown us where our quarters would be before he had slinked off to his own, and I make a beeline straight for my room. I step inside and I’m assaulted by the smell of fruits and flowers – there is a bowl of fruits on the bedside table and a wall of ivy and flowers snaking around the bedpost. I wonder what purpose the flowers could possibly serve other than an extravagance.

I lie down on my side at the very edge of the bed, not bothering to pull the blanket over me. I hug my knees to my chest and try to make myself feel smaller. My hair is tucked between my head and the mattress and it acts as a makeshift pillow. That reminds me that Jonathon’s hair still needs to be cut. I wonder who will do it now.

Not for the first time today, tears leak from my eyes. How am I to do this? Do this alone? I know I must die someday, but I had never thought it might be this young, in this way. It had been an ever-present fear in the back of my head, in every child of Panem’s, but it had also always been a distant thing. That didn’t seem real, always something that happened to other people and not you.

Through all the pain and starvation and death in my life, I always had Jonathon at my side. Someone who knew me in ways no one else could. A best friend with no boundaries. His absence felt like a limb had been chopped off, an extension of myself that no longer existed. I have no idea how I will do this without him by my side.

I pull the skirt of my dress over the top of my knees. I grimace. I wish I had worn my slacks this morning. They made me feel more myself, but now in this dress, I feel like an imposter as I make my way towards the Capitol. Across all Panem, I am the girl in the dress that screamed and cried. I am not the girl who can lift nearly a hundred pounds of wood and wield an ax better than any kid in my grade.

I am not the real Johanna Mason. I am the scared, sniveling Johanna Mason. I am the one who is afraid.

For what seems like forever but must have been only an hour or two, the door to my room opens, and there stands Blight. He still seems amused with me as he steps in and rolls his eyes.

“I am not good with drying tears,” Blight says, “so go ahead and sit up. Remember, I don’t coddle.”

I do as he says, and one tear that was already primed to fall escapes, but I wipe away the rest. I imagine my face is even puffier and red than when I boarded the train. Blight stands at the edge of my room for a long time, raking his eyes over me carefully, frowning at me. I shift awkwardly, unsure if he wants me to say or do something.

“Tell me, Johanna, have you ever had a boyfriend?” Blight asks. I blink and pull back from him, hugging my arms. 

“What does that have to do with anything?” I say, and Blight does not answer me, instead just taking a seat beside me on the bed. I scoot away from him uncomfortably.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Blight says. I feel the urge to slap him building up in me.

“Listen here, if you’re trying to hit up an underage girl before she dies, just know I have more dignity than that. And a good enough right hook,” I say. Blight laughs, and I am struck by how hearty it is.

“Oh, no, no,” Blight says. “I ask because if you did, say, have a sweetheart back home we could play that as a strategy.”

Almost every tribute has a strategy to get sponsors and sympathy. Last year’s Victor, Annie Cresta, played up her love of making seashell jewelry and the artists and fashionistas of the Capitol ate it up like catnip. She was already from District 4 though, so she probably had a surplus of sponsors anyway.

Not that it had mattered anyway. By the time of her Victory Tour, it was an open secret Annie Cresta would be known for the near insanity her Games had driven her to rather than her creativity in jewelry design.

I swallow thickly.

“No, I don’t,” I say. “And no, I don’t have friends. And my parents are dead, just to cover all the bases.” Blight nods, light dancing in his dark eyes. I consider saying that I have a twin brother. I decide against it. My brother – and grandfather for that matter – deserved more dignity than being thrust in the spotlight before I die.

“Straight to the point. I think we’re going to get along fine.” Blight brushed off his pants, even though there was nothing on them. It seems he is still neglecting shoes.

“Look, we don’t need a strategy right now,” Blight says. “But we’re on borrowed time.”

I hesitate for a moment. “What’s Trapper’s?”

Blight shakes his head. “Not at liberty to say. He very specifically does not want anyone else to know.”

I frown. Something reeks of suspicion. I drop the subject, however.

“We’ve never had a girl win before,” I say softly. District 7 has had five victors in the history of the Games, and not a single one of them a girl. You would think eventually the odds would turn in our favor, that eventually we could keep a daughter of District 7, but then again, I don’t believe in luck so what do I know. “Do you think I have a shot?”

Blight, true to his claim, doesn’t coddle me. “No. District 7 is always woefully underprepared. It’s a miracle if either of you wins.”

I decide I don’t like Blight. Sensing my dislike, he stands up.

“Come on,” he says. “Eat some dinner. You’ll feel better. We’re going to need to watch the recaps of the reaping.” Is it really dinner time already? I look outside my window and see that the sky is bright orange and the sun starting to sink lower in the sky.

I think of refusing, but then my stomach growls I muse to myself that I might as well enjoy the food of the Capitol before I die.

Blight and I arrive at the dining car, and Trapper and Flynnigan are already seated. Flynnigan has changed out of his magenta suit and now wears a pair of black slacks and a button-down shirt with a flower pattern. He still has not removed his hat. I wonder if he’s going to wear it the whole time we’re here.

Flynnigan is delicately sipping a glass of what appears to be wine, watching Trapper as he wolves down his food at an unmatched speed. Not that I could blame him. No one in District 7 has enough to eat, and I’ve heard that the Capitol food is delicious.

I sit and begin to load my plate, and by the time I’m done food is starting to fall off the sides. There is roast beef and chicken and green beans and mashed potatoes and fruits in every color of the rainbow, and I eat it all almost as fast as Trapper. There is no talking at dinner, as I and Trapper are too focused on the food and Flynnigan is looking us over with disgust. So distracted by food, I don’t even send Trapper a glare for being weird and suspicious.

Blight eats slowly. He’s one of the few in District 7 who don’t have to worry about being fed. Being a Victor comes with more money than anyone could spend in a lifetime. He just puts a slice of chocolate cake on his plate and eats it one small bite at a time.

It’s nearly a half-hour before we’re done and I know if I eat more, I will be sick, I push my plate away. Trapper finishes soon after me, and Flynnigan looks between us. He seems tempted to say something about manners or how much we ate but he doesn’t. The judgment is still there, unspoken, so I stick my tongue at him. He frowns and looks away.

We make our way to the viewing car, and we settle in to watch the reaping recap. Everywhere in Panem people will be watching, seeing as it was mandatory viewing. The reaping goes as I expect it to, and it happens so quickly many of their names I forget after their spoken. A few sticks out, however.

Districts 1 and 2 have volunteers, as usual, all of them fully grown and had an intimidating aura about them. District 3 is mostly there to break up the Career reaping, and I forget about them quickly. District 4 provides two more pumped-out tributes, but the girl sticks in my mind, with her piercing eyes and cruel twirl to her lips. The rest pass in a blur, District 6’s boy is clearly already morphling dependent at thirteen and I hope the poor boy goes out quickly. District 12 reaps two twelve-year-olds, and District 11 is silent as always when the names are called.

My reaping, however, is impossible to turn away from. The shrill scream I give, the robotic and lifeless way I walk, the tears unashamedly pouring down my face. Trapper, who is three years younger, looks far braver than me even though I know he is terrified too. Other tributes have similar shows of fear, but mine by far is the most memorable. Of all them, I look the most pathetic and easiest to take out.

Blight hurries off the moment it finishes, telling us to be prepared for tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the Parade of Tributes, where we will officially be introduced to the world. We will be made over and styled by Capitol designers. Made to look more desirable to the people who will be cheering for us to die. Blight tells us just to go along with it, that it will not be in his best interest to make enemies of the people on our team.

I return to my cabin and find a pair of pajamas in the dresser. I consider showering but I decide against it. I am far too ready for this day to be over to extend it. I can always do it tomorrow. I curl myself into a ball under the blankets and I shut my eyes.

Sleep, however, refuses to find me. I lay there for hours, waiting and waiting for me to sleep, but I can’t. All I can think of is the kids in the reaping and wondering which one of them would be the one to kill me. My mind keeps coming back to the girl from 4. There is something about her that unnerves. I do not look forward to meeting her.

My mind considers if the other tributes are thinking of me. Do any think I will be the one to kill them? I think probably not, after that performance I gave they most likely discarded me without a thought. A screaming girl in a dress from District 6 of all places? Not a chance that I was a threat.

I stare at where my dress sits in a jumbled heap of green. It had been our neighbor Eloise’s, but she gave it to me before she died. Eloise had been sick on and off for years and never had enough money to pay for treatment. At the time, I took it because you don’t turn down free things in District 7, but now I wish I had. That dress certainly hadn’t helped me appear like a threat, it made me seem weaker, like a crying, frivolous girl no one need care about.

I wasn’t a threat.

_I wasn’t a threat._

I nearly bolted up in bed as soon as the idea blossomed in my head. I wasn’t a threat, or at least no one thought I was. I was the girl they could let slip away to go after better targets, after all, they could just kill me later. It’s not like I could hurt them, right? And it’s much easier to kill once all the other bigger game is gone. And if there’s an ax….

I smile in the darkness and I am finally able to go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all doing well! If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, let me know!  
> Have a blessed day! Remember, Jesus loves you!  
> And I'm starting a new thing across all my stories, a Bible verse will be included in each author's note. I hope you enjoy this as much as I do, as I have been considering starting this for a while, and I feel like it's something the Lord wants me to do.   
> Bible Verse of the Chapter: "But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me, my glory, and the lifter of my head." -- Psalm 3:3  
> I hope you're all having a blessed day!  
> \--PrincessChess


	3. Chapter 3

From the moment I encounter my prep team – a trio of sisters named Hera, Artemis, and Athena – I know we are not going to be friends. They usher me around the room I was deposited in the Remake Center, not caring one bit about my privacy as they shave and groom and shower every part of me.

Hera laments early on that my hair is just simply dreadful and admonishes me for an hour on _seriously, how hard is it for you to take care of your hair, you District girls don't know anything, do you?_ I just barely manage to avoid Hera dying my whole head the same nasty shade of green as her own.

Artemis is also less than pleased with me, scolding me for not shaving my legs as I yelp each time she pulls off leg hair with what she calls "wax strips". She soon shuts up about it when I tell her that I could always try out some moves I'm saving for the other tributes on her. I then panic, wondering if that will get me disqualified somehow, so I'm sure to tell her it was a joke. Mostly. Artemis gives a shaky laugh but doesn't speak to me directly for the rest of the morning.

Athena is the least dreadful of the three. She quietly applies the make-up to my face, and there is something sweet to her smile that sets me just a bit at ease. She seems to be the youngest of the three, but she applies lipstick and mascara with a steadier hand than the others. Athena even laughed just the tiniest bit at my comment to Artemis. I decide I dislike her a little less than her sisters.

Athena is brushing my hair and the others are putting away their powder brushes and hair dryers when a tall woman with emerald eyes and bright pink hair cropped into a pixie cut. I presume that this must be my stylist. I pull my paper-thin robe tighter around myself as her surveying gaze. After a long moment, she coughed tightly, and my three prep workers scurried out without another word.

Athena gives me one more look, one that is almost reassuring, and then it is just me and this woman.

"So…. uh, you gonna tell me your name?" I ask lamely. The woman did not smile, only narrowed her eyes, and folded her arms across her chest. I see she has pink flowers tattooed to the back of each hand, the petals the same color as her hair.

"My name is Lydia," she said. "And I will be your stylist." Lydia strides towards me slowly and picked up a wisp of dark brown hair between her fingers. She nodded once to herself.

"Yes, this will do fine," Lydia said. She turned around and motioned for me to get up as well, and I followed her hesitantly. She led me into a side room with a large coffee table in the center and chairs stashed all over the place in what appeared to be organized chaos.

"Sit, eat," Lydia said. She pushed a button on the wall and the center of the coffee table opened. Up from the center came a pot of some kind of delicious-smelling stew and a tall glass of cold water. I sat in one of the chairs near the table and I expected Lydia to as well, but she just merely turned on her heel and left.

I do start to eat, but slowly. I watch the door and wonder where Lydia could have gotten off too. I doubt it's to make my outfit for the parade nicer looking, more a tune to my features. I've watched the Games for seventeen years, and I've never seen District 7 wear anything flattering.

The costume for the parade is supposed to represent what each District's trade is. And ours is lumber, and so for decades, District 7 tributes have been nothing but variations of trees. I remember a few years ago they put an actual bush on top of our tribute's heads. Something about Lydia told me she would not hesitate to do the same to me.

My thoughts turn to my mentor as I finish my soup. I hadn't had time to tell Blight I had thought of a strategy before he left me and Trapper here, while he was out schmoozing sponsors or something or other. Well, I had had time, but Trapper was on Blight like white on rice, and if Trapper did not want to share his strategy with me, I surely was not going to share it with him. I smile as I think of his prep team doing the same to him as they did to me.

I am just finishing the last of the food when I hear the clicking of heels coming my way, and then there is Lydia in the doorway, a dark green garment bag in her hands. I wrinkle my nose. I already know I am going to hate the costume. Lydia begins to unzip the bag and I see a disgusting shade of brown and I am assured my suspicions are correct, this costume is really going to suck.

Hours pass in a dizzying blur of fabric and the return of the prep team, curling irons, and lipstick and, mascara scattered across a vanity they sat me at. The three sisters keep up their chatter as they did before, but Lydia just stands over them like a hawk, observing the preparations with a keen eye. There is something frightening in her expression that makes me hope that my prep team does not mess up.

Eventually, I am placed in front of a mirror and I frown at myself. My lips are painted a dark green, the same green as the flowers woven into my hair, and I am wearing a shade of brown that makes me seem washed out and a thousand times paler than I really am. It is a slim jumpsuit, and the bodice is cut just so that you can nearly see my whole breasts, and a vine is tied around my waist. I am a poor attempt to resemble a tree.

But I am grateful for this outfit. While ugly, it is not outlandish, and most likely eyes will slide right over me in the parade. The best way to not be seen as a threat is to blend in with the crowd.

"Perfect, isn't it?" Lydia asks.

"Yes," I say. Technically it is not a lie, even if it is perfect for a different reason than she intended. The three sisters are shooed away, and Lydia leads me down to the basement, where we will begin our parade through the Capitol to the presidential mansion. By the time I arrive, Trapper is already there with his stylist and Blight.

I frown. Had Blight been with Trapper all day? While I was stuck alone the Terror Trio and Lydia? Hurt and betrayal again spike in me, but I try to push it down. This is a game of survival and I can not begrudge Trapper for using Blight to his advantage.

It is what I would do.

My and Lydia met with the others at our chariot. Every District has one, and we will go follow in chronological order. We will be just about in the dead middle, meaning most will not bother to pay us too much attention. I can see some of the other tributes by their chariots with mentors and stylists. Most look frightened, some look around in awe at the costumes. The Career tributes – 1,2, and 4, the illegal trainees – are unbothered, looking around like they own the place. I try to avoid the gaze of the District 4 girl.

"Johanna," Blight says as a greeting, smiling at me. He nods at Lydia. "Lydia, wonderful to see you again."

Lydia does not reply, only nods herself before disappearing off into the crowd. I swallow and look at Blight in confusion.

"Lydia is not one for socialization," Blight says. "She'll watch from inside the Remake Center. She does so every year." I am envious of her. I wish I could lock myself away and watch instead of being here. Then again, I am a competitor, she is not.

"I want you both to smile and wave," Blight says, looking between me and Trapper. I snatch a glance at him, and he is wearing the same as me, only he is wearing a crown of flowers instead of having them wove in his hair. He looks no better in the outfit than me. "But try and not to draw too much attention to yourselves. You don't want to look desperate for their attention."

"Aren't we though?" Trapper asks quietly. Blight nods.

"Yes, you are," Blight says. "But they don't want it to be so obvious that you are."

I suppose that makes sense but at the same time my stomach twists. As if fighting to the death for their entertainment was not enough, we must appear as though we want their attention, but so much so that it is off-putting. I think I should be entitled to their undivided attention, at least for a few minutes. I am most likely going to die for their pleasure after all.

_Sounds like a bunch of phooey._ I can almost hear my brother now, his laugh just out of my reach. My stomach twists again. This will be one of two times that my family will see of me before I am thrown in the arena. I hope my outfit makes them laugh. They need a laugh.

Blight helps us into the chariot, and I hear a chiming. The parade must be about to start. I turn to the front and find District One is disappearing up the ramp and onto the street above. We slowly start to make our way forward, and Blight moves back.

"Good luck!" he calls to us one final time, and then we are getting into position to be next. I bite my lip and try to ignore the churning in my stomach. The last thing I need to do is throw up and make myself more pathetic on national television. I want to appear helpless, not like a scared child.

Trapper puts a hand on my shoulder, and I turn to look at him. That fear that had been there since we were reaped is present in his eyes. He gives me a small smile, and before I can stop myself, I smile back. I notice that he has a scar at the edge of his mouth, and it reminds me of the one Jonathon has behind his ear.

Our chariot begins to tug forward, and Trapper removes his hand, giving his excuse for a show-stopping smile. I follow suit, and my last thought before being assaulted by sound and light is that Trapper may not be so bad after all.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is much shorter, but this felt like a natural conclusion, as this was more housekeeping and introducing Johanna's prep team and stylist. Next chapter will begin the real preparation for the Games, and so the plot will start to pick up. I hope you're all having a blessed day, and leave any questions, comments, or concerns in the comment section.
> 
> Chapter Bible Verse:
> 
> Then John gave this testimony: "I saw the Spirit come down from heaven as a dove and remain on him. I would not have known him, except that the one who sent me to baptize with water told me, 'The man on whom you see the Spirit come down and remain is he who will baptize with the Holy Spirit.' I have seen and I testify that this is the Son of God." - John 1:32-34 (NIV Translation)
> 
> Have a blessed day!
> 
> \- PrincessChess


	4. Chapter 4

The bed in my room is soft, too soft, actually. My bed at home is just a mattress stuffed in the corner, and it's lumpy and ridden with holes. I and Jonathon have to share it, and we sleep back-to-back, fighting over the thin blanket that we used. This bed is almost cloud-like, the bed is smooth and I feel almost like I'm floating.

Yet still, I can not sleep. I toss and turn all night, looking for the furnace that is my brother. Yesterday I had been so far lost in my thoughts and fears I could not sleep, but I did not miss my brother's presence, though I could not sleep anyway, musing over strategies and my fellow competitors. But now, when I have decided my strategy and have mused all I can about the others, my mind is hollow, and all I can think of is my family.

I flip onto my side and watch the glow of the Capitol through the window, the lights of skyscrapers and streetlights dancing in the darkness. For the first time in a long time, I miss my mother. She always had creativity and imagination about her, and she could weave a story about anything. The twinkle in her eyes, the curve of her lips, and the cadence of her voice could make even the most trivial fable into a grand epic.

I wonder what story she could make about the dancing lights of the Capitol. She could make them in fireflies caught in a war, she could have them be sunlight peaking through and fighting for our attention. I shut my eyes and I can almost hear it, I can almost feel her hands brushing through my hair. I feel the hot pinpricks of tears start to build, and I instinctively reach for Jonathon, but find only a cold sheet.

And then the most frightening thought comes to me. If I do lose, would it be so bad? Would I get to see my mother again?

I am torn from these thoughts by the sound of the door opening, and I look up to see Blight standing in the doorway, the dim light of the hallway casting him in a dark shadow.

"Can't sleep?" Blight said, stepping into the room. I scowl at him and sit up.

"No, I'm just sleeping with my eyes open," I shoot back, and Blight chuckles under his breath. He takes this an advantage to step closer into the room, and the lights come back on with a wave of his hand.

"I could not sleep before my Games either," Blight said. "Your insomnia will most likely get worse the longer you're here." I grimace and hug one of the pillows to my chest. Great, I'll be going into the arena sleep-deprived.

"Why are you here?" I ask. Blight stands casually in the middle of the room, still wearing the same socks from the train. I vaguely wonder if he ever wears shoes.

"I'm here to discuss strategy," Blight said. I raise an eyebrow.

"And we must do it now? In the middle of the night?" Blight raises his own brows in return.

"Well, Trapper is rather…. clingy," Blight says. "I don't blame him, this is a terrifying situation, and I'm the only one around here that is not from the Capitol beside you." Blight has a ghost of an affectionate smile. "It's almost sweet."

I frown. Though I can feel myself softening to the young boy, some part of it is still unnerved by his insistence we be trained separately. Blight either doesn't notice or doesn't bother to comment on my look, because he just continues talking, beginning to pace the length of my room.

"So…. have you given it any thought?" Blight asked. I hesitate. If Blight is really in this to help me, I should tell him. He could be able to play it up, make it into something more viable. But what if Blight dismisses it? Makes me pick a new one. What if he uses it against me to get Trapper home? Only once of us can go home, and Blight will most likely through all support behind the one with the higher chance. If we're thrown in and Trapper has a better chance, I feel like Blight will not hesitate to use this against me.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and hug my pillow closer to me. Not everyone is an enemy, and it's best to not make many so close to my final days.

"Helpless," I say softly. Blight turns to me, surprised.

"Helpless?" Blight repeats. I nod. "Would you enlighten me as to what 'helpless' mean?"

"My reaping was a shitshow," I say. "I look like a scared baby. And I'm many things…. but I'm not scared. I want to play that up. Make me seem like I'm not a threat, so they'll ignore me and pick themselves off first."

I am not scared to kill. I am not one to turn away from a fight. I may feel fear pool in my belly as I realize I might lose, or this is the end – but I do not run. I am afraid, but I am not scared. There might not be a difference to everyone else, but to me, those two words felt different. One gave me power. The other didn't.

Blight considers this for a moment, shutting his eyes and rocking back and forth on his heels. As the moments become longer, I realize that Blight may refuse to help me with it. Felt it was not good enough. I refuse to switch it. And if I refuse, he will not help me.

"Are you a threat?" Blight asks after a long moment, slowly opening his brown eyes.

"What?"

"You said you wanted to make yourself seem like you're not a threat," Blight said. "And that begs the question, are you even a threat in the first place?"

In my mind, visions of when I and my classmates would have ax-throwing contests pass through. I never missed. Pictures of me and Jonathon, hunting during the hunting days, cleaning game, and fish. Memories of tending to the sores on Paw Paw's legs. I may not be trained like the others, but I am not to be dismissed out of hand.

"I think so," I say. I hope my voice is more confident than I feel. Blight scoffs and runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

"You think so?" Blight asks. "I'm sorry Johanna, but 'I think so' is not good enough. There is no time for grey areas in the Games. If this strategy is going to work – for me to help you – I have to know it'll be worth it in the end."

"That's not fair –"

"I told one thing when you got on that train," Blight said. "I told you I would be straight with you. Not fair. Not nice. Not even your friend." Blight shook his head and began pacing again, drumming a finger against his lips. "Maybe we can still play you as a love interest, someone desirable to the audience –"

"No!" I say. Blight stops dead in his tracks, and he turns to me, not quite angry.

"No?"

"No," I say. I push the pillow to my side and lean forward towards Blight. "I can do this. I am a threat. I know I am."

Blight bits his lip and there is a fire in his eyes, a fire telling me his patience is much thinner than I thought it was.

"I'm not sure you are," Blight says. He looks down at me like I am the most foolish person he has ever seen. "All you have done since you've got here is worry about what is happening and whine about being here."

"I think I'm entitled to a little complaining," I shoot back. "I am going into the Games!"

"But complaining and worrying won't win you the Games!" Blight counters. He pinches the bridge between his brows. "Winning the Games comes from strategy and strength. Winning the Games means you have to be willing to do the unthinkable – you have to be ready to kill other people. Not animals. But people – real people, that have done nothing to deserve this." He clicks his tongue. "I am not sure you have that in you."

I grit my teeth. "But I do!"

Another moment flitters into my thoughts, the moment I promised myself I would never let myself think of it again.

"Really?" Blight scoffs. "I doubt that."

I take a deep breath. Is it worth it? It makes me sick to use that as a means to survive. To cheapen what happened for a few extra days in an arena. But a part of me that wants to live, that wants to go home to my brother and grandfather, tells me that if it gets me home, it doesn't matter. What if I don't take the leap, and I die, then I will have kept something that could have saved me. If I take the leap, and I die, then the secret keeps with Blight alone.

So, I take the leap.

"I know I can," I say shakily, looking at the wall next to Blight, "because I've done it before."

Blight does not react at first. His lips open in a small 'o' as he processes what I've said. He takes a step towards me, and then a step back.

"You've…done it before?" Blight says slowly, careful with each word. I nod once, still not looking away from the wall. "When?"

I pick at a loose thread on my blanket.

"I was twelve," I say quietly. "They-they weren't innocent, the one I killed. But I still – I'm the one that killed them."

"Was it some kind of accident?" Blight prodded. I am unsure if he asking as a mentor, or as someone that does not want to be disgusted with me. Maybe it is both.

"No," I say. Though I feel heat cloud my cheeks, I do not feel tears begin to gather. I did not cry then. I will not cry now.

"Wh-who was it?" Blight asked.

"My father," I say. Blight tilts his head, and that is all the prompt I need to tell the rest of the story.

It had been a late summer day. The Games had just ended, and I and Jonathon were walking back from town. I had a thing of shoelaces in my hand, and Paw Paw was carrying a paper bag of bread. I remember that Minnie had been looking from the window of her home, watching us pass with a smile.

When we had arrived it was quiet, and that immedailty had set all three of us on edge. When he had left, it had been a cacophony of sound. My mother and father yelling back and forth. Both had terrible tempers. Father's was far worse than hers, the smallest thing could set him off and send him into a yelling fit. But mom was formidable on her own, and that tongue that could weave stories turned into a sharp knife of its own.

It would go on for hours. Days even. The three of us had left, Paw Paw insisting that we go to the marketplace and let them work this out. Our mother had shot her father a grateful look as he herded us out the door. She had not liked fighting in front of us.

But when we came back – nothing, no fighting, no noise at all. We entered slowly and found neither of them in the front room. Me and Jonathon had wordlessly shared a look and known what to do. Jonathon led Paw Paw to a kitchen chair and started to help him take off his shoes, and I had gone to the back room to look for Mom and Dad.

What I had found inside made me wish I had sent Jonathon instead. On the floor sat my mother, sprawled out unnaturally, blood pooled around her. There seemed to be a cut on her dress it had come from. I blinked and looked up at my father in the corner, who was clutching a knife and crying. For a moment I had not understood what that meant.

"Dad?" I had called out, but then the crazed look he gave me when he turned told me everything. He had done this. And he was not afraid to do it to me. He started towards me, and I do not know what it was – instinct, dumb luck, or maybe even divine intervention – but my hand reacted first, grabbing my father's ax by the door.

My father was five steps away when I pulled my arm back and swung,

My ax met him before the knife met me.

It hit him square in the head. He had fallen with a thud and a matching pool of blood started to drip onto the wooden floor. I stared for a moment.

And then I screamed.

When I am done with my story, I am hugging the pillow again, still not looking at Blight. He does not look at me.

"He-he had never been violent before that," I say. "It-it was like something in him just…snapped. And I-I…."

"You killed your father?" Blight asks. "In self-defense?"

I gulp. "Yes."

It had taken me a long time to not feel like a monster after that day. Jonathon had convinced me over time that I had done what was right – he had killed Mom, and he was going to kill me. He was most likely going to kill all of us. And though now I feel sorry, I know that … it….that I can go on.

Blight blinks and then nods once, wiping his face of all emotion.

"Johanna, I think your strategy will be fine."

And then he left, not even saying goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Bible Verse:
> 
> Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." — Isaiah 41:10
> 
> I hope you all are doing well. Any comments, questions, or concerns? Let me know. Have a blessed day!  
> \--PrincessChess


	5. Chapter 5

Flynnigan rides with me and Trapper down to training, which is held in the basement of the Training Center. The elevator ride is smooth and quick, mostly uneventful besides the nervous way that Trapper taps his foot. I only give it a curious look but Flynnigan either does not notice it or is pretending not to. I bite my lip the further we go down. I suppose I should be more nervous, but all I can feel is a rising sense of humiliation as I realize I will be seen by fellow Tributes by Flynnigan in his sold gold suit and rhinestone top hat.

The elevator opens with a ding, and I am relieved to see that many of our fellow Tributes are not here. The Careers are here, of course, mingling together with quiet voices as they look out at the rest of us. I see District 5 in the corner, sitting together on a bench. District Eleven is at the very edge of the room, putting on a not quite believable façade of calm.

Flynnigan claps in excitement as he ushers us into the room. The other Tributes give Flynnigan a curious glance before looking away. I manage to catch the eyes of the District Four girl as she turns away from us, and we stare for a moment, before she sends a sneer that sends a shiver down my spine and I look away.

"Now," Flynnigan says, putting a hand on both of our shoulders, "remember what Blight told you, and have a fantastic day!" And then he steps back in the elevator and we are completely alone with the other Tributes.

I start to move towards a bench opposite District Five, and I motion for Trapper to follow. He smiles at me gratefully and falls into step with me. I cannot decide if I like Trapper or not, something in him seems so innocent and fearful, and it almost reminds me of Jonathon, but then I remember how quick he was to separate himself from me on the train and I feel pinpricks of anger all over again.

Regardless, I do not see the harm in letting him sit with me. Everyone else is pairing off by district, and I don't want to single Trapper out too much.

The minutes leading to eight passes by sluggishly, and the rest of the districts arrive. Most are accompanied by their escorts, but a few arrive alone. I had wanted to arrive without Flynnigan myself, but Trapper had wanted him to come, "just in case". When I asked just in case of what, he looked away, but I did not push it further.

The Gamemakers watch us as we wait from their balcony above us. They would be here all three of the days, to watch us and learn how best to kill us based on our strengths and weaknesses. The arena was completed years in advance, so there would be no major changes, but if a tribute happens to have an affinity for knives, they just might put a few extra in the Cornucopia.

The last to arrive is District Twelve, and the two children are escorted by a bubbly woman with neon blue hair. The three of them talk back and before for a few moments, and then the woman is leaving, and the two children share terrified looks as they scan over all of us.

My heart lurches. It is always sad when twelve-years-old are reaped. They are almost always cannon fodder – only a few twelve-year-olds have made the top eight in the whole history of the Games, and that is the highest they have gotten. A morbid part of me wonders if it will be me that will have to kill them. I hope not.

I am distracted by my thoughts by a woman calling us to order in the center of the room and telling us to stand together to hear better. The woman explains in a no-nonsense tone that we are under no circumstances to fight with each other, but we are allowed to speak to those outside our district. There are stations for all means of fighting and survival. She gravely warns us to be sure to visit as many of both as possible.

"Nature will be more enemy more than each other," she intones grimly. She dismisses to train, and I look over at where the aiming station as an ax. I consider going over there just for practice, but Blight had warned me against it before we left.

"You're too good at it," Blight had said. "They see you throwing like a pro? You'll become threat number one."

I shake my head and the District Two tributes take over the station, beginning to throw knives at an impressive speed. I look down at Trapper next to me and he is looking out at the myriad of stations. I wonder what Blight told him to do.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the knot tying station is empty. I suppose it will do me some good to know that.

"I'm going to knots," I say, "Are you coming with me?"

Trapper turns to me, furrows his brow like he's considering it, and then he shakes his head. I do not question it, only giving him a shrug as a lackluster goodbye before turning on my heel. Trapper kept going back and forth on if he wished to be around me, but I had other more pressing concerns.

I settle myself in at the knot-tying station, and I spend about half the morning there. The instructor is patient with me for the most part. I was not a novice to knot-tying, but I was nowhere near the level of a District Four tribute. By the end of my session with the trainer, I'm able to tie two new types of knots and can make a snare for the game.

I decided to try my hand at the fauna station. As a citizen of District Seven, I spent so much time in a forest that I knew which leaves and vines to avoid, but I figure I better stop by at least. And there was no guarantee that the arena would even be a forest; I remember a few years ago when they were thrown into a jungle. Half of the tributes died by picking the wrong thing to eat.

The trainer is not alone when I arrive, and I see that the two District Twelve kids are listening intently as the trainer lists off what to avoid. They give me a scarce nod as an acknowledgment, and I settle next to the other two.

"If you're in the desert, it's tempting to use the cactus as a water substitute," they said, "but the acid will ruin your stomach, and you'll dehydrate even faster. If you're in a jungle, however, a coconut might…"

The trainer goes on for what feels like forever, and while I try to absorb all I can, I am almost taken in by how attentive the Twelves are. They hardly blink or breathe too deeply, too scared they might miss something, which I can not really fault them for.

The trainer is almost finished when they dismiss for lunch, which is held in a room just off to the side. I stay close to the Twelves, unsure if I should seek out Trapper, but unwilling to appear to be alone. I did not want to be singled out, not yet.

I catch Trapper's eye as he takes his food from the buffet lined up against the wall, and I see he has deposited himself with a skinny, dark-skinned boy from 11 and the red-haired girl from 3. I decide to leave him be. If he wanted to make alliances with his lonesome, so be it.

I file in behind the Twelves, who are now noticing that I followed them, and are sharing terribly concealed significant looks as they grab plates. I roll my eyes.

"I don't bite, you know," I say, dumping a thick scoop of mashed potatoes on my plate. The boy laughs once, softly, and that seemed to set them just a little bit more at ease.

"D-do you want to eat with us?" the boy asks. I think for a moment. If I pair off with the Twelves now, they will see us as trying to form an alliance, and I consider if I really want the Twelves as my allies. They seemed to have no particular skills that would be helpful; both were small, skinny, and scared witless. But then again, I was pretending to be useless myself. The Twelves might surprise me.

I give a shrug as an answer and the two smiled. We sit just a bit off from the others, and the Twelves seem to take this as an invitation to begin talking with me. I learn that they're named Clyde and Daisy, and that Clyde is the youngest of three, while Daisy is an only child. They're sure to clarify to me they're not related; it seems much like District Seven, some traits were so common that they pop up in almost everyone. For us, its eyes and hair the same shade as the bark of our trees, for them, it is olive skin and coal-black hair. Both their families work in the mines, except for Daisy's mom, who mends clothes.

In turn, I tell them about Jonathon and Paw Paw. I tell them how Jonathon used to come with me to hunt for odd jobs around the District, but our Paw Paw started to need us more when his health took a nosedive last winter. So aside from shifts in the lumber yard and school, Jonathon spends nearly all his time at home.

By the time we are called back into training, I'm almost certain I like the Twelves. They have this sweetness about them, that despite their fears and anxiety managed to shine through. The three of us continue together to the camouflage station, but before we can reach it, we are interrupted by the District Four girl falling into step with us.

"Hello Seven, Twelves," she says. I am unsure what I expected this ferocious seeming girl to sound like, but I do not expect the high-pitched squeak that comes from her.

The Twelves look away from her and begin to hurry their stop to the station head of us, but I stop, giving my best imitation of a polite smile. Jonathon always told me I did not really have one, so I make do pretending.

"Four," I say, nodding. She twists a strand of her sun-bleached hair around her finger, which is pulled into such a high and tight ponytail I wonder if it hurts.

"Just wanted to meet the competition," she says as if this was a race instead of a deathmatch. She smiles a pearly smile, and I notice her front tooth is chipped just a little. "Call me Marlin."

The fact that this girl is named after the first Victor, District Four's Aada Marlin, does not quell my uneasiness. Aada Marlin was held to near diety-level regard in Panem, when she died there was a four-day long funeral and memorial broadcast. Many tributes from Four have been named for her, and though none of them won, they were all the deadliest before they died. I expect this girl will be no different.

'I'm….Johanna," I say. She looks me over once, twice, and then she folds her hands in front of her primly.

"I look forward to a good, clean game," she says, and then she scrunched her nose and then turned to go back to the Career pack waiting by the archery station. I hesitate for a moment and then turn towards my previous destination.

As I join the Twelves again, I quietly think to myself that something tells me Marlin was not going to be playing a clean game.

Clyde smiles at me as he begins mixing some green substance out of grass, mud, and water. Daisy watches him warily, biting her lip nervously. The trainer seems to have left them to their own devices, as she was helping the District Five pair with something they seemed to have started this morning.

The three of us continue with this gunk that Clyde concocted, and after almost an hour it's almost the same shade as tree leaves. Daisy does not look pleased with the results, and I agree with her. This was certain to not fool anyone and spending so much time here when we could be doing something else when it was clear this was never going to be our forte.

I turn my head, and I see that Trapper is currently still with the girl from Three at the edible plant station, but the boy from 11 was gone. Trapper leans closer to her and seems to whisper something, and she laughs. I narrow my eyes at him. Something seems too friendly about Trapper's smile. I make a note of it and turn back to the Twelves, a sinking feeling in my stomach.

I heard another laugh, and all three of us turned to see the entire Career pack now having their eyes trained on us from the archery station. My stomach churns. It seems, despite only training for a day, battle lines were already being drawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all! It's been a bit longer since an update, but I've just started school back while under quarantine, so I've been a little overwhelmed trying to learn and also communicate with my professors. But!
> 
> This chapter is the last one before we get to the real meat of the story and all these pre-Game politics are played out. I love y'all and can't wait till next time!
> 
> Chapter Bible Verse:
> 
> "Little children, let us not love in word or speech, but in action and in truth." - 1 John 3:18
> 
> Questions, comments, or concerns? Let me know! Have a blessed day!  
> \--PrincessChess


	6. Chapter 6

The next day and a half of training passes about the same as it did the first day. Me and Trapper would arrive together before he would scuttle off to the girl from Three. The boy from 11 would follow them from a short distance, casting suspicious looks at the rest of us.

I would travel around with the Twelves from station to station. I found myself actually liking the Twelves; Daisy turned out to have an affinity for starting fires and before long could do it in under a minute. Clyde was a skilled hider; in the small obstacle course it took me and Daisy over an hour to find him. Despite being terrified, they still found it within themselves to laugh just a little, their eyes a mishmash of melancholy and almost wistfulness.

I, meanwhile, make a big show of being helpless at everything. I always fell from the climbing walls, and I misidentified several poisonous bugs on accident. I’m sure Daisy and Clyde must have noticed how much of a dead weight I was appearing to be, but they didn’t say anything. I also eye the few axes lined up at the aiming area, and I almost itch to go over to them, but I refrain.

“Wait until evaluation,” Blight intoned every time I left or arrived in the Seven apartment. “Be just good enough to have motivate to put it in, but not enough to give you a high score.”

When lunch on the third day arrives, I’m almost excited that I get to throw an axe. Then I see Daisy and Clyde’s terrified looks and I sober. The Games are getting closer, and this was our last chance to impress the Gamemakers. Evaluations are simple – each Tribute gets to enter one by one to present a chosen skill. We get judged on a scale of 1 to 12, 1 being the worst and 12 the best. And it’s 12, because we always have to be right on the nose.

We won’t know our scores until tonight, when they present a recap. Our scores will tell sponsors if it’s worth it to sponsor us, or if we’re most likely going to be cannon fodder. A good or bad score does not guarantee any certain outcome, but the pressure to get sponsors is almost as oppressive as the need to survive.

Evaluations take place in the afternoon of the third day of training, and we are left in the room we eat in. Each of us will be called in by District, boy first and girl second. This is one time they have us separate by District, and I sit next to Trapper at a white linen table. He’s biting his nails and sharing scared looks with the girl from Three.

The girl from Three was definitely going to be a problem.

When the call the boy from 1 in, I sneak a look at Daisy and Clyde. They’re sitting in the very back, almost shoved into the corner. Both of them are looking at their laps, and I bite my lip. I hope they score well, if only so they can die with a fighting chance.

The Districts fly by much quicker than I would have liked, and before I know Trapper is standing to go. Reflexively, I reach for his hand and look at him, and as he looks back at me, I realize I don’t know what I want to say. I swallow once and pull back my hand.

“Good luck,” I whisper. Trapper seems surprised for a moment, but then a bit of warmth floods his eyes.

“Thanks, you too,” he says, and then he is gone. I shake my head and look down at my hands. How am I going to possibly be able to come home without Trapper? Look into the eyes of his family upon my return, and be a living reminder of what they lost?

Again, I wonder if the toll for winning is so great, that it may be worse to win than to lose.

The minutes pass both languidly slow and also in a flash. I don’t remember them calling my name, but the must have because I find myself standing in the middle of the training room, looking up at the Gamemakers. A few have wondered off to look over the buffet in the back of their terrace, but must are staring down at me, bored.

“Begin when you’re ready,” one of them says, a tall, slender man with a short, intricately shaved beard.

I stand, frozen, for a moment, but then I feel the itching in my fingers. I smile to myself and finally go to the weapons I have wanted in my hands for the past three days. I twirl the axe in my had once, just relishing the feeling of having one again, and notice how different this one is from the ones at home. No feel of rough wood against my palm, instead it’s a smooth metal, cold to the touch.

I aim it for just to the side of the bullseye, and it meets it’s mark like I expected it would. I aim this time for the center, and the thud as it hits resonates in my soul. I smirk to myself and look up at the Gamemakers, and I can make out just a few brows raised in interest, but most are unmoved. Though Blight had told me this was what I was hoping for, I’m still offended.

I take a deep breath and keep throwing, missing a few targets but hitting just as many. After five minutes, I’m halted by the same man who told me to begin. 

“That’ll be all,” he says. “Thank you, Miss Mason.”

I nod and leave, dropping the axe back in place.

When I return to the apartment, Trapper is in his room, and I find Flynnigan and Blight waiting for me. Flynnigan is talking to someone, a small, dark box held to his ear – a cell phone, I realize. Most of us in District 7 are lucky if we have a phone at all nearby. We used to have a phone booth at the end of our street but it broke years ago. Cell phones are only used in the Capitol, and I don’t really see the need. If something’s so important you need to talk immedailty, why can’t you just go and find them?

“…Yes, sir. Johanna and Trapper are real winners…..Any amount would be appreciated….” Flynnigan notices me and nods his head in my direction, but he just keeps talking in the phone and he walks down the hall to the room. I blink. Flynnigan seemed so hands off. I knew theoretically Flynnigan was here to help us, but something in my brain did not compute that fact.

Blight motions for me to join him on the couch. He sits cross legged, his standard blue socks peeking out from under his knees.

“I don’t like phone calls,” Blight says simply. “Flynnigan is very professional, and most of the time I’m just a stuttering mess on the phone. Helps convince the sponsors.”

Blight doesn’t say anything else, and I am unsure what to say. I had followed all his directions for the evaluation, and Blight is about as personable as a beaver, so I do not know how to actively start a conversation with him.

‘How’s Trapper?” I ask eventually. I twirl a strand of hair around my finger nervously. Blight shrugs.

“He’s okay,” Blight says. “He just wants this all to be over with. Get on with the Games.”

I can’t help but agree. All this petty stuff just made the scared and anxious twist in my stomach feel even tighter. Waiting is the worst part of this whole ordeal. Waiting for the gong to sound already, so that way we can stop dragging out what is to happen.

Flynnigan comes scuttling back into the room, looking very red and almost, dare I say, angry.

“They refuse to commit until after the scores,” Flynnigan grumbled to Blight, and he sits down on the couch, his painted lips pulled into a harsh line. “Really? At this point, you should know who you’re pulling for. The betting odds have been out for days.”

The betting odds. My stomach turns. In addition to the scores attracting sponsors, they also help finalize who people want to bet on. Their bets on everything – who will die first, who will win, who will kill who and how. I know there has to be a bet on when I’ll die, but I ponder if anyone had put money on my pulling through. I doubt it. Betting odds are configured from the moment the name is pulled out of the bowl, and they fluctuate all the way until the end of the Games. By this point, however, there are unlikely to be any major upsetting changes to the odds.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. Flynnigan keeps coming in and out of rooms, talking on their phone, alternating between frustration and the voice of a salesmen. Blight moves only once from the couch to retrieve a bowl of cereal, which he hits cross-legged on the couch. Trapper never leaves his room.

I sit by the window, watching the cars and people down below, and keeping an ear out for the sound of Trapper’s door opening. As the hours pass, I start to think about home. Jonathon and Paw Paw will see the scores tonight, it’s mandatory viewing after all. When my predictably low score comes, I wonder if they will be frightened, or if they know me well enough to see what I’m trying to do. Jonathon should be able to, at least.

For a brief moment, my thoughts flash to Minnie. She’ll be watching too, and I know she will be frightened by my score. I shake my head. Minnie will be fine. She’s a tough girl.

The sun lowers behind the buildings, and then Flynnigan is calling Trapper in to the living room. Lydia arrives, as does Trapper’s stylist; they will need to know our scores to know what they’re working with for the interviews tomorrow and brainstorm with Blight and us how best to handle what our angle will be.

We settle into the couch, and I am squished between Trapper and the arm rest. Trapper does not look at me, only at the screen as the Games’ master of ceremonies, Caesar Flickerman, starts a speech to review the rules of scores once again as if we didn’t already know.

The scores start, and I find no real surprises. All the Career tributes manage an eight or higher. Marlin manages to pull a ten, the highest of the Careers for the night. The rest of us manage to pull out alright scores. We hold our breath as the arrive at District Seven.

“For Trapper Counselman,” Caesar says, pausing for dramatic effect, “a score of five.”

Trapper lets out a soft breath. I can see in his eyes he hoped for higher.

“For Johanna Mason,” Caesar says, “a score of six.”

I feel a pressure fall off my shoulders. Not high enough to raise suspicion, to all the other Tributes I will be lost in the shuffle of lower District tributes.

Lydia says nothing, merely purses her lips and looks between the screen and me. Flynnigan seems to be near fuming, whispering under his breath something about having to spin low scores again. Trapper is saying nothing, staring past the screen as the scores continue.

The boy from 11 pulls out a nine, which is the highest a non-Career manages to snag. I hold my breath as Caesar finally comes to Daisy and Clyde.

“For Clyde Harrod,” Caesar drawls, “a score of five.” Not too bad for someone as little as him, I had known that their score would not be high.

Caesar flashes another winning smile.

“And for Daisy Grayson,” Caesar says, “a score of eight.”

_Eight?_

“What?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been gone for awhile, classes have started up again and I've had to take up a third witness part for my mock trial team, so I've been on a little bit of a goose chase trying to find time. 
> 
> Chapter Bible Verse:  
> "For where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I among them.” -- Matthew 18:20
> 
> I hope all y'all are all okay, and I love all y'all! Have a blessed day!  
> \--PrincessChess


	7. Chapter 7

“Hera, I don’t think black lipstick is the way to go,” Athena says. She takes the tube out lipstick out of her sister’s hand and sets it on the vanity I have been set in front. Hera makes a clicking sound with her tongue and turns back towards the bevy of shades of lipstick lined on the counter.

Today is the final day before the Games, which means I have been unceremoniously thrust onto my prep team and designer in preparation for the interview tonight. Yesterday had been a flurry of prepping with Blight and Flynnigan for etiquette and the like, but I already knew my strategy and what was best to say to go with it, so it had passed with little incident.

Artemis is curling my hair with a device that feels hot against my neck, and they warned me to stay still lest I be burned.

“Johanna, just remember someone is always watching,” Athena says softly, coming closer with a brush and pallet of powder. “And not all of them will be rooting for you like we will.” Athena had been attempting to give me a few pearls of wisdom before they finished my look for the interview and thrust me on Lydia. A part of me feels offended this woman, who has never had a worry in her life, is offering me advice on survival, but there is something almost sweet about it that compels to bite my tongue.

And when Athena says she’s rooting for me, it almost feels like she means it.

Lydia appears a half hour later, silent as always and lips pressed into a thin line. She gives the members of my three prep team a nod and they leave wordlessly. Lydia steps in my room and I attempt to open my mouth in a way that is not uncomfortable. Do not like lipstick, I decide, no matter the color, as it feels heavy and gross on my lips.

Lydia is carrying a garment bag over her shoulder, which hangs on the doorframe and then turns back to me.

“This should do you well,” Lydia says. “Nice colors, a just a step above semi-formal. You should blend into the background.” Lydia had been none too pleased when Blight had pulled her aside yesterday and said my plan was to not stand out, as she seemed to have something more elaborate planned for my interview dress. She had given us a silent, sullen look the rest of the night, but agreed to change it all the same.

“Thank you Lydia,” I say. Lydia gives me a nod.

“We need to get dressed,” Lydia said. And so dress me, she did. Lydia had foregone a dress for a soft brown sleeveless jumpsuit. Along the collar were the designs of vines that twirled around each other to make a swirling pattern. My shoes are simple, brown flats with a small, girly bow on them. My make-up is subdued, only a flash colors on my eyes but the rest of my make-up as natural as possible. My hair is curled, a single wreath of a braid sat where a headband would, one or two leaves casually added in. By District standards, I am dressed excessively. By Capitol standards, I am dressed plainly.

It is exactly what I need, if I’m to not stand out. I give Lydia one measured smile. Lydia does not respond to my smile, only clicks her tongue and fiddles with my collar to straighten it. For a moment, I am grateful for Lydia. If I had been stuck with a stylist that was loud, I might have strangled them. It is nice that she is quiet. I like the quiet too.

Once Lydia is satisfied with my outfit and stops fidgeting with the collar, she returns me to the main living room. She deposits me in a chair and then swiftly turns on her heel to leave. I do not turn to watch her but I can hear the elevator ding behind me as she exits.

I am alone for a long while. The sun is starting to set in the sky, which means soon we will have to arrive for our interviews. I wonder idly what Caesar will ask me. I will most likely get a question about the Reaping, my terrified scream would be the elephant in the room. Blight had warned me to just act scared when asked. Keep myself looking like I was so scared I would die out quickly of hunger or fear.

Eventually Trapper is dragged in the room, and he is dressed far more extravagantly than I am. His suit is a checkered brown and dark green, and a crown of twigs sat on his head, two points lifted up like it was antlers of some kind. A bright gold flower is pinned to his chest, and it stands out as garish against an already vivid suit. Blight is following after him, and Flynnigan is tittering about something.

Blight spares me look and then nods, before returning back to Trapper and whispering in his ear. I feel a twist in my chest. Trapper’s insistence to train separately feels even more sour than before. Had it been an attempt to steal away Blight’s attention? Though me and Blight had a strategy planned, all his energy and time was with Trapper. I am the odd one out, and the one most likely to be pushed aside because Trapper needs more help.

I say none of this, knowing at this point it will do me no good, but I eye Trapper suspiciously as Flynnigan starts to lead us down to the front of the Training Center, where a large stage has been erected. Down the avenue are thousands of people squished together, the only seats in the first few rows of viewing, which is reserved for the mentors and escorts. All the Capitol officials are on a nearby terrace, looking down over all of us.

Much like everything else, the interviews going in ascending order of the districts, but for interviews the girl would go first. When we arrive at the side of the stage with the other tributes, it is just like the first day of training, and we are split by an invisible wall, district by district. I manage to catch the eyes of Daisy and Clyde, who are dressed in ridiculous outfits meant to mimic the overalls of a miner. Both look terrified, but I wonder why Daisy could be so scared. She is twelve years old, but one with an eight. That’s the highest a twelve-year-old has ever scored to my memory.

We are shuffled into our seats along the back of the stage. We sit in a single row, where we will remain as we wait for yourselves to be called. Caesar already sits patiently in his interview chair, and he gets the crowd riled up after the lights go up and we start to broadcast to the whole nation. The girl from 1 stands and struts forward, her floor-length yellow dress giving her the appearance of being encased in gold. I am unsure what exactly the theme she is going for is, but I suppose it must be one that’s working as from the moment she sits down, the crowd is eating up her every word.

I roll my eyes. This is going to be a long night; I can already feel it. The rest of the Ones, Twos, and Threes pass without incident, but then Marlin is called and I realize how danger she is going to be.

Marlin stepped from her chair, her form-fitting seafoam green dress and seashell tiara turned her into the spitting image of a sea creature. She smiles dazzlingly and then begins to walk forward, but then she trips forwards and gracefully rolls back to her feet, feigning embarrassment.

“Whoa!” Caesar says. He reached out a hand to her as she sits to steady her. “That was a close one! Wouldn’t want an injury before the Games start, would we?”

Marlin giggles sweetly. “Oh, Caesar, if a bruise is the price for this dress, I’m willing to pay it! I’m just – I’m just so grateful I get to look so beautiful! The Capitol is so generous for letting me!”

Her strategy is clear. Marlin intends to be the poster child for what the Games are to be – show of strength, but a symbol of the Capitol’s glory. Marlin has no problem towing the line of obedience to win sponsor’s favor.

Marlin’s time is up after a few minutes, and she returns to her sit with the buzzer. I almost shiver at the glint of rage in her eyes.

The boy from Four tries to do the same as Marlin, but he lacks the same charisma as his partner. Five and Six pass with no incident, and then it is me.

I manage to make it to the interview chair without falling, and scrunch in on myself, hunching my shoulders and not quite looking Caesar in the eye.

“Johanna!” Caesar says. “I must say, your outfit is quite exquisite.” I bit my lip and smile.

“Oh, uh, thank you,” I mumble just loud enough to be heard. “Madame Lydia really is a great designer.” I shift my eyes to the ground nervously.

“Oh, there’s no reason to be shy Johanna,” Caesar says. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we?” He looks to the audience and they applaud in agreement. I look up from beneath my eye lids.

“I’m sorry Caesar,” I say. “It’s just so different here from District Seven!”

“I’m sure it is!” He reaches out a hand to mine and pats it comfortingly. I fight the urge to pull it back. “But once you go back home, I’m sure you can bring a little Capitol back with you.” I smile. And there’s the opening.

“Caesar,” I say, and I can feel my eyes pinprick with hot tears. “I’m not sure I’ll – I’ll go home! Everyone here is just so strong and smart!” I wipe at the tears in my eyes. “I’m just glad I get to be in something so important.” Caesar grips my hand tighter.

“Oh, Johanna, don’t count yourself out quite yet!” Caesar says. “But I suppose that’s a way to look on the bright side.” I sniff once and wipe at my tears again. “I’m sure your District is proud of your patriotism!” I am unsure how I am able to keep from snickering. Everyone back home knows I could not give less of a rat’s ass about the Capitol or Panem.

I don’t have to hide my disgust at that fact for long, as the buzzer signifying the end of my time soon beckons, and I smile and stand, returning to my seat. Trapper is already walking to the chair and the way his hands shake tell me he is not ready.

Trapper’s interview is memorable in the aspect that he does not say more than one word for each response. I look for Blight in the crowd, to see if he approves of this and this is some strategy that I can not name. Blight is looking straight ahead, but he is nodding slightly despite his usual impassive face. It seems this is something that I do not understand.

Trapper has been nothing but a mystery since he walked on the train. Whatever this strategy is, it better not mess up my own. I shut my eyes and shake my head.

Trapper is the least of my worries. I have bigger fish to fry. One specifically dressed in green just down the row. Trapper’s interview passes and the rest of the people that follow are of little note, and me and them can seem almost interchangeable. Good, that’s what I wanted it.

I perk up once Daisy’s name is called. She shuffles to the front of the stage and looks only at her shoes.

“Miss Daisy!” Caesar bellows. “The little surprise of the Games!”

Daisy smiles slightly and she hugs her arms around herself.

“What exactly did you do to get an eight?”

Daisy’s eyes widen and she shakes her head. I narrow my eyes. She seems…scared. Scared that someone may actually know what gave her an eight.

“I-uh, I’d rather leave it a surprise,” Daisy manages to whisper. “Don’t want to tip off the competition.”

Caesar nods sagely. “Well, that makes sense. You can’t blame a man for trying, can you? It is my job to worm secrets out for living!” Daisy manages a believable laugh. Daisy is soft and quiet, just like she had been for the past few days. I had thought she would be bolstered with confidence after earning an eight, even if it painted a larger target on her back. An eight in the Games was no easy feat for an outlier District tribute, especially for one so little as Daisy.

I narrow my eyes and I watch Daisy kick her knees anxiously. Something happened when Daisy was in that training room. And I do not think it was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Bible Verse:  
> "The Lord is my strength and my shield." -- Psalm 28:7
> 
> It's been a hot second. I did my best on proofreading, but it's been a TIME since I've posted the last chapter. My life has really gone to hell in a handbasket, but I knew if I did not get a chapter out, I was going to be a pain to get back on the horse again. If you could please send some prayers towards my family, it would be much appreciated. God knows the need. Thank you. 
> 
> On a happier note, Mock Trial season is over, so that means more time for writing! YAY! 
> 
> Questions, comments, or concerns? Let me know! Have a blessed day!  
> \--PrincessChess

**Author's Note:**

> I am not the owner of The Hunger Games, and I make no claim to the ownership of characters and plots previously introduced by both the book and film productions. I only claims any original characters or plot lines.
> 
> Merry Christmas! Today we celebrate the birth of the Son of God, who was sent to die for our sins so that me have everlasting peace and life.
> 
> I was partially inspired to finally write my version of Johanna Mason after reading Oisin55's series of fics about the Victors, specifically The Victor's Project, which is a fantastic read and I recommend you go read it. It is on FanFiction.net, and I am unsure if it is available on AO3.
> 
> I've always had ideas about Johanna and what her life was like, and I am so excited to finally to write it down. Johanna is one of the more fascinating characters to come out of the series, as we know so little about her. I know everyone probably has their own versions, and I ask you to indulge me as I toss my hat in the ring.
> 
> I hope you all have a blessed day! Questions, comments, and prayer requests are always open.
> 
> -PrincessChess


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